


we are the hollow men

by murphysarc



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, F/F, Fluff, Light Angst, M/M, Strangers to Lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-25
Updated: 2017-02-25
Packaged: 2018-09-26 19:25:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9918674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/murphysarc/pseuds/murphysarc
Summary: murphy is a talented english student who wants nothing more than to get out of his sports-driven high school and follow his dreams at Columbia. for now, though, he sticks to editing the school newspaper, where he submits anonymous poetry under a fake name.bellamy blake is on the hockey team, and secretly reads the newspaper.a dumb murphamy fic, featuring clarke & murphy as best friends, raven & bellamy as friends, and an octavia & emori side pairing bc why not. this is my first attempt at fluff stuff.title from the poem "the hollow men" by t.s. eliot.





	

_ I am a hollow man.  _

_ Please fill me with straw. _

_ I am -  _

Murphy’s pencil lead snaps in two, abruptly ending his latest work-in-progress. A low sigh escapes his lips. It’s probably for the best - he can’t think of what sentence could possibly follow an opener like that. 

In one motion, he picks up the paper and crumples it into an indistinguishable mass, throwing it in an almost-perfect arc to the trash can in the corner. There’s a reason Murphy doesn’t play basketball, though. Instead of falling into the trash, his paper hits Clarke in the face as she walks into the classroom. 

“Hi to you, too,” she says. Murphy doesn’t apologize. He doesn’t have to - Clarke knows his erratic tendencies all too well at this point. It’s surprising that she still puts up with him after twelve years, but she buys him lattes, so Murphy doesn’t question it. 

Murphy grunts, pulling the offered latte towards himself and opening up a new page in his notebook with the other hand. “Did you steal this one, too?” 

Clarke shoots him a look that he quickly returns. “You know very well that I can’t  _ steal _ from the place that I work.” 

“That’s definitely not true,” he replies. His gaze comes to rest on the empty sheet of paper in front of him. “In fact, I wrote a whole novel-”

“-about a girl who steals from her workplace, but in the end gets fired. Oh,  _ and _ her name was Claire. She was blonde. Real subtle.”

This time, Murphy raises his eyes from the white page. “It was symbolic.”

“Oh, it  _ better _ be,” she laughs. “Can’t have me starring in a bad novel.”

The corner of Murphy’s mouth raises, the closest to a smile that he gets these days. “Either way, thanks for the latte.”

Clarke returns his smile and leans back in her chair. “You could come with me to the coffee shop during our spare, you know. Instead of holing out here all the time.”

His eyes slide back to the paper, his grip tightening on the pencil. “I know. But I like it here. It’s quiet.”

“It’s an empty English classroom smaller than my bedroom -  _ that’s _ what it is.”

Murphy doesn’t give her the satisfaction of a response, because he can’t admit to himself that Clarke’s right. She is, of course - she always is - but it’s not something that he wants to think about. 

Arkadia High, home of the Falcons, was an athletics school. Ninety-nine percent of the kids enrolled are in one or more of the thirty different sports programs offered, with dreams of winning athletic scholarships and even bigger dreams of being scouted. Even Clarke longs for the opportunity to take her sport to university, though figure skating is not something easily pursued. 

Murphy, however, prefers English class. He has not done sports, he does not do sports, he will not do sports. He’s tried many times over to convince his mom to let him switch schools, but this one is closest to home, the bus doesn’t reach his home, and gas is expensive. 

It’s safe to say that no other kids choose the English classroom to hang out in during their spare block. 

Clarke falls into silence, scrolling through her phone. Murphy picks up his pencil. 

_ I am a hollow man.  _

_ Please fill me with straw- _

“What are you writing, anyways?” 

Murphy flinches, his pencil moving, continuing the line off the “w” so much so that it looks like a tail.  _ “Clarke,” _ he complains, ripping the page out of his notebook.

“Let me see.” She’s unfazed to his complaints, as always. He attempts to protest, to rip the paper up, but Clarke steals it before he can. “Taking on T.S. Eliot? Good luck,” she says, crumpling up the paper and throwing it at Murphy’s chest.

“Ouch.”

“Oh, please, you don’t need me to tell you that you’re amazing.”

“Yeah, yeah.” The paper finds its way to the trash can just as the sharp bell rings overhead. Murphy doesn’t move. English is his next class, anyways.

  //  //  //  //  //

The bell rings, signaling the end of the day, but still, Murphy does not move. His latte is long since discarded, five more notebook pages joining it in the trash. “Lock up when you’re done, alright?” Mr. Kane says, gesturing to the keys lying on his desk.

Mr. Kane - Murphy prefers to drop the “mister” - is the only reasonable teacher at Arkadia. All of Murphy’s other classes involve frequent breaks to watch the most recent sports games, with all the star athletes receiving reprieves from any assignments they didn’t wish to complete. Kane, however, holds everyone to Murphy’s standard, and Murphy’s standards are high. 

“Sure,” Murphy says, leaning back in his chair to watch the endless stream of students walking in the hall. He waits, patiently, for any one of them to turn and enter the classroom, but none of them ever do. It’s the same thing that happened last week. 

Editing the school newspaper is hard, but it’s even harder when there are no writers. 

Sighing, Murphy waits twenty more minutes, before finally leaving the English room and locking the door behind him. Kane’s keys slide into his pocket. They both know he’ll arrive first tomorrow, one of Clarke’s lattes in his hand. 

He wanders through the halls slowly, no real desire to reach his destination. Finally, though, he pushes open the doors to the school’s very own, private ice rink. 

Some people attending other schools might think it’s strange to have an ice rink joined to the school building, but it’s part of Murphy’s everyday life. All the funding that comes into the school goes directly to improving the athletics. It explains why they have a football field, a soccer field, a spare field, an ice rink, two gyms, separate locker rooms for each team, and a third gym where the auditorium used to be. The school is huge - the academics section is less than a quarter of its space. 

It also explains why Kane’s classroom hasn’t been updated since the 70s.

The chilled air of the rink immediately bites into Murphy’s skin. He keeps going anyways, settling into a seat in the very top row of the bleachers. Clarke is already on the ice. She moves faster than anyone else in the figure skating program, light lines left behind on the ice anywhere her skates travel. 

Murphy sighs, pulling his laptop from out of his bag. The newspaper may not have any members, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t have to write it. 

_ The Predator _ , his self-named newspaper, is Murphy’s biggest pride and joy. There are no permanent members besides himself - Clarke is a tentative half member - but once a week, he manages to escape and just write. 

An hour later, and the paper is done, save for one corner section that is always last to be finished. For, that corner is titled “poetry submission” and the author is “the prey” - it looks like a nice change contrasted with all the other author sections, which have his own name, but in reality there is no difference. Every week, Murphy writes a poem and he puts it in the paper under his pseudonym. It’s a form of therapy.

He will never tell a soul that it’s him, not even Clarke. There are things written in those poems that he himself doesn’t truly understand. Even so, it’s not like anybody will ever ask. 

Clarke’s the last one off the ice, as usual, but Murphy starts packing up at around 4:30 like he does every day. He’s powering down his laptop when a voice next to him interrupts his thoughts. “Is that the paper?”

If his five foot jump in the air was noticeable, the boy standing next to him gave no indication. “Uh, yes,” Murphy stammers. The first thing he notices about the boy is his hockey jacket, the number 28 embroidered on the front. His raven hair hangs in front of his eyes, still wet from the showers. He must have been practicing recently. 

“That must make you John Murphy.”

Murphy’s eyes widen in surprise. The boy’s caught him off guard. He doesn’t know what to do with the pair of brown eyes that seem so excited to meet his own. Still, he recovers quickly. “That makes you either my stalker, or the only person in this school who reads the paper.”

The boy laughs, a sound that starts low and ends high, yet is continuously melodic. “Let’s go with the latter.”

Clarke’s come out of the locker room and is heading up the bleachers towards them, suspicion in her eyes when she sees the hockey boy. “Well, I’ve got to go,” Murphy says quickly, pushing his laptop into his bag and standing. It angers him that the boy is easily taller.

“No problem,” the hockey boy says, turning and leaving before Murphy has the chance. He doesn’t get a moment of silence to figure out what just happened, though - Clarke’s blonde hair is in his vision seconds later. 

“Who was that?” she says, smiling. “Hockey kids don’t normally come here when figure skating has the rink - except, of course, to cat-call us.”

Murphy only shrugs. It occurs to him only now that he never asked for the boys name. Instead, all he has is a freckled face and the back of his jersey, spelling out “Blake” to help him.

//  //  //  //  //

It’s late, extremely late, when Murphy’s notifications go haywire. For him, that means he only has one. 

An email comes in just past midnight. He’s got nothing better to do, so he opens it, but when the words hit his eyes his hand slams his lamp, illuminating the room. “What?” he whispers, staring at his phone.

For, the email is not meant for him. It’s meant for the newspaper, and it’s sent from someone named Bellamy Blake.

Murphy sits up, covers falling off his chest. Nobody has ever sent the newspaper an email before - to have the very first one come in the same day a stranger took interest in it? This is too much for Murphy to handle. 

Fingers shaking, he opens the email. It’s short - it only reads,

_ Hi. Was wondering who the writer of the Poetry Submissions are? Thanks. _

And that’s it. The email ends, only an addendum of “Bellamy Blake” to round it off. In one motion, Murphy pulls his laptop out of his bag, searching the name. It’s an uncommon one - he can use this to his advantage. 

In a short amount of time, Murphy learns that Bellamy is extremely popular. He’s captain of the hockey team, often goes to parties, and is friends with almost every student at school. Murphy thinks that he’s vaguely heard the name, from whispers of other students in the hallways, but he can’t be sure. 

It’s a nice name, though. He’ll be sure to remember it. 

Half an hour goes by before Murphy finally works up the nerve to re-open the email and type a response.  _ Sorry, _ he says.  _ It’s anonymous for a reason. _

Part of him wants to erase the text and type,  _ It’s me, they’re all mine, I write them, please somebody notice how hard I work -  _ but that would go against everything Murphy stands for, and probably destroy his pride. They are, indeed, anonymous for a reason. He hits send. 

There is no response.

//  //  //  //  //

“Hey. You. Murty, or whatever your name is.”

Murphy winces - he didn’t want to be the one whoever walking behind him is addressing - but he turns around anyways. A girl he’s never seen before is staring at him expectantly. Straight brown hair comes down to her waist, framing her slender face complete with a set of icy blue eyes. She looks vaguely familiar. “It’s Murphy,” he says. 

“Yeah, whatever. I need to know why my brother’s obsessed with you.”

Murphy raises an eyebrow, but the girl doesn’t flinch. Everyone else in the hallway, however, begins to stare at the two of them, some shooting annoyed looks. They’ve stopped right in the middle of the hallway, making it nearly impossible for anyone to get by. The girl in front of him, however, remains unfazed. 

“I don’t know who you are, much less who your brother is,” Murphy says dryly. “Sorry.” He begins to turn, but the girl grabs his arm. 

“This is important,” she says. “He hasn’t acted this way since Gina.”

The name rings a bell, but he can’t place it. “Did you miss the part where I said I have no idea who your brother is?”

“Bellamy,” she replies. The rest of the hallway fades away. “My brother is Bellamy Blake. I’m Octavia, his sister.”

It’s only been a few days, but Murphy can’t imagine a world where the name ‘Bellamy’ doesn’t move him. He doesn’t  _ know _ Bellamy, and yet, hearing the name elevates him. It’s poetic (and pathetic). 

“Right,” Murphy says. “I don’t really know him.”

“Well, he knows  _ you _ ,” Octavia counters, hands on her hips. “He’s read all the issues of that paper you put out each week, going on and on about some poetry section? I don’t know. But he keeps talking about you.”

Murphy doesn’t have a response for this. Thankfully, he’s saved by the entrance of a different girl, one with dark hair tied back in a bandana and slim almond eyes. “Octavia,” the new girl says, throwing her arms around Octavia’s waist. “I lost you again!”

Octavia’s harsh features lift into a smile, one that reminds Murphy of his own. “You could never,” she taunts, turning to embrace the new girl. Murphy gets the sense he’s viewing a private moment and begins to retreat. 

“Nope, you stay,” Octavia says before he can leave. Murphy rolls his eyes, but Octavia either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. “This is my girlfriend, Emori. She was trying to find you, too, but I found you  _ first _ .”

“Great,” Murphy sighs. “But I can’t tell you why he likes the paper so much, okay? Anyways. I’ve got to go.”

He turns and walks away before Octavia can grab him again. “It’s the end of the day!” she yells. “You don’t have anywhere to go!”

Emori silences her before she can say more. Murphy doesn’t give either of them a reply - he’s too busy walking towards the rink in order to meet up with Clarke. Before he gets there, though, something catches his eye. 

Inside the trophy case, one that takes up an entire hallway dedicated to the victories of the various teams in the school, lies a picture frame of a girl. She’s around his age, with wavy blonde hair and a smile that could save lives. A set of roses is placed next to the picture. 

Engraved on the picture frame are the words  _ Gina Martin, 1999-2016. _ It is there that he knows the name from. 

Absentmindedly, Murphy clicks his tongue. For, there is a quarter of a boy next to Gina in the photo. Whoever made the tribute no doubt tried to crop him out, but the two were too close for that to completely work. Only black curly hair is visible in the photo, but Murphy has no doubt that it belongs to Bellamy Blake. 

//  //  //  //  //

_ I am a hollow man, _ Murphy writes. 

_ And you filled me with straw. _

//  //  //  //  //

It’s two weeks later that he sees him again. Bellamy Blake strides confidently into Murphy’s English 12 classroom, exchanging a nod with Kane before taking a seat next to Kane’s desk. His eyes meet Murphy’s for a second, but then they are gone. 

“Everyone, this is Bellamy,” Kane says. “He’s the new peer tutor for this class. Be nice to him - he’ll be grading your poetry assignments.”

_ Damn. _

Murphy looks at Bellamy again, meeting his gaze for a moment. In those seconds, Bellamy smiles at him, like he thinks that this is funny. There is nothing funny about it. 

//  //  //  //  //

_ “Murphy. I can’t understand why you don’t just  _ tell _ Bellamy that it’s you who writes those poetry submissions.” _

“Because,” Murphy replies, talking to Clarke through the phone, “Those poems are super personal. All my deepest secrets are in those poems - everything that I’ve been through, my dad, the school...I couldn’t tell anybody.”

_ “If these poems are so personal, why do you put them in the paper to begin with, then?” _

He can’t answer that. Well, no - he can. He knows exactly why, but it’s not something that words can contain, and without words, Murphy is nothing. “The  _ point _ is, if he reads my English work - which he will - then he’ll know it’s me.”

_ “That doesn’t make any sense.” _

“Of course it does! A poet’s work is incredibly easy to recognize if you know his writing style, and Bellamy will very quickly know mine!”

_ “You’re the English prodigy. Just write something that doesn’t sound like your other stuff.” _

“I did that, actually. And it’s terrible. I can’t hand this in. I can’t even put my  _ name _ on it, it’s that bad.”

_ “This is so stupid.” _

“I know!”

_ “So, your big dilemma is hand in an average poetry piece and have Bellamy remain a stranger, or hand in a great poetry piece and have Bellamy know all your deepest secrets.” _

“Exactly.”

_ “Murphy. This. Is. So. Stupid.” _

“I’m in a crisis here, Clarke!”

_ “Well, good luck with your ‘crisis.’ I’m going out on a date.” _

Murphy takes a moment to pause. “Really? With who?”

_ “Raven Reyes, captain of the soccer team.” _

“Hey, I know who that is! Next week’s paper is going to do a spotlight on her team, actually. If things go well, care to get me some interview time?”

_ “Murphy!” _

“Right, sorry. Have fun, then, or whatever?”

_ “Thanks, I think.” _

The line goes dead. It’s probably for the best. Clarke was nothing but honest, and Murphy does not handle honesty well. 

//  //  //  //  //

“Mr. Murphy, can you come here?”

Kane has his serious teacher voice on, which is never a good sign. The final bell has already rung, leaving only himself, Kane, and Bellamy in the room, who is bent over a desk, reading another student’s work. 

“Sure,” Murphy says. “What’s up?” He already knows.

“Well, Bellamy here graded your poetry assignment. He gave it a C-. I saw this grade and I thought that it wasn’t possible - until I actually  _ read _ your poetry assignment.”

Murphy bites his lip. “Sorry, I - I was tired?”

“Mr. Murphy, we both know that that is not the reason for...this,” Kane says. “I mean...I’m the first to say poetry is subjective, but you cannot hand in a piece of work comparing a dog to the sky and say it was only because you were tired.”

“I’ll do better next time,” Murphy promises. 

“I know you will,” Kane replies, “because I’m going to get Bellamy to tutor you.”

_ “What?” _ Murphy and Bellamy say at exactly the same time, which somehow only makes it worse. 

“You heard me. This assignment is worth 30% of your grade, Mr. Murphy, in case you forgot. Because I like you, I’m allowing you to re-do it, but only if Bellamy tutors you for a few weeks at least.”

“Sure,” Bellamy says, standing, before Murphy has a chance to object. “We can start right now.”

“Great,” Kane says, and then gestures to his keys. “Lock up when you’re done?”

Bellamy nods, and then Kane is gone, the door closed behind them. They are alone. 

//  //  //  //  //

“Something tells me you aren’t really into this.”

Murphy shrugs at this, keeping careful watch on the clock. “I guess English isn’t really my thing. But that’s fine.”

For the past hour, he has been in constant tension, forcing himself to look like a fool in front of Bellamy. He has to keep up the facade that he doesn’t know how to write poetry, or else - well, Bellamy’s pretty smart himself. It’s not hard to figure out. 

“You’re the creator of the school newspaper,” Bellamy says. “Something tells me that English actually  _ is _ your thing.”

Murphy shrugs again, causing Bellamy to sigh and close the textbook in front of him. “Fine. We don’t have to talk about it. Let’s talk about the poetry section of the paper.”

At this, Murphy’s entire body tenses. Hopefully he manages to hide it. “What about it?”

“You really have no idea who writes the poems?”

Murphy swallows. His mouth is already dry. “Uh, nope. They’re anonymous.”

“It’s a shame, really,” Bellamy says, sighing. “I just...they seem to really know what they’re talking about, you know? About everything that they write about. They really  _ get _ it.”

Murphy nods. Bellamy’s right to take this as an invitation to keep talking. “Those poems, they talk about death, mostly. And blaming yourself for death, even when you couldn’t have stopped it. I really get that, but no one else does, so I just...I wanted to find them. I hope that I can.”

There’s a pause. “Well, I guess I should go. Let me know if you ever find out who they are, okay?”

Bellamy’s almost to the door before Murphy stops him with his voice. “Do you have a favourite?”

“A favourite?”

“A favourite poem.”

Bellamy’s hand stops hovering over the doorknob and he sits back down next to Murphy. “I do, actually.  _ Roses _ , I think, is my favourite.”

And then, Murphy’s not in the room anymore. He’s three, watching his dad give his mom a rose - 

He’s six, giving the girl down the road a rose - 

He’s ten, there are roses in his mom’s bedroom - 

He’s fourteen, the girl down the road crushes a rose in her first - 

He’s sixteen, roses lie across his dad’s grave - 

He’s eighteen, he’s  _ now _ , roses are next to the picture of a girl with a smile that could save lives but she still lost her own - 

“Murphy? You okay?”

“ _ Roses fall beneath the stone _ ,” he whispers, under his breath, reciting the first line of the poem. He wrote it a year ago on the anniversary of his father’s death. His eyes are wet before he realizes Bellamy is staring at him, and then he knows what he has done. 

“Oh, shoot,” he says, standing, pushing his things into his bag in a rush. “Sorry, I - I’ve got to go. Sorry. I’m sorry.”

Bellamy places his hand on Murphy’s, pushing him back into his seat. Murphy lets him. No one has ever had this kind of power over him before. 

“You write the poems,” Bellamy says. “That’s...why didn’t you tell me?”

Murphy’s throat is too tight to answer for several moments. “They’re personal,” he finally says. No more words will escape. 

If he does not have his words, then he is nothing, and yet Bellamy’s hand is still on his own. 

“Last year, I lost someone,” Bellamy says slowly, as if he’s not used to hearing the way those words sound in his own voice. “My girlfriend, Gina. I never thought that I would - well. Your poems really helped. I don’t know who you lost, but - I understand.”

Murphy bites his tongue, but not for long. “They’re mostly about my dad. I lost him a couple years ago.”

Bellamy nods in understanding. “Thank you for telling me.”

Murphy stays silent. Several minutes later, Bellamy’s hand travels from his own fingers, up his wrist and then his arm, until one hand is gently placed on Murphy’s cheek and the other around his shoulder, pulling him closer until - 

Kane told them to lock up when they were done. The lights do not turn off and the door does not lock for another hour.

//  //  //  //  //

As luck will have it, Clarke and Raven do work out, and she  _ does  _ get him interview time for the paper. 

“So this goes on record?” she asks, sitting on the wet grass of the soccer field only a few feet in front of him. It’s a little close for his taste, but he gets the sense that Raven doesn’t really care. 

“Yup.”

“But no one reads the paper, right?”

“Well...not really. Not yet.”

Raven nods. She pulls her hair into a tight ponytail, and then leans closer until she is next to his ear. “Bellamy’s my best friend. You hurt him, I break both your legs. Got it?”

His eyebrows raise, but he does not flinch. “Loud and clear,” he says. 

“Good!” she replies. “So what is it you wanted to talk about?”

//  //  //  //  //

Three weeks later - 

Murphy is sitting at his desk, during his spare period, except he is no longer alone. Bellamy sits next to him, feet on a desk, pressing against Murphy. “You finally finished?” he asks him after a long moment of silence. 

“I think so,” Murphy says, setting his pencil down neatly next to a clean, crisp piece of paper. The heading is “Poetry Assignment Part Two,” subtitled “inspired by T.S. Eliot.”

“Let’s hear it,” Bellamy says, knowing full well Murphy can’t refuse. 

_ “I am a hollow man.  _

_ Please fill me with straw.  _

_ I am a hollow man,  _

_ and you filled me with straw.  _

_ I was a hollow man.  _

_ Thank you for the straw.” _

The poem is only six lines long, and yet, they both finally understand. 

**Author's Note:**

> this is my first time writing like this. can't decide how i feel. hopefully you enjoyed. 
> 
> kudos/comments keep me fluffy. thanks <3


End file.
